


Stories Never Told But Deeply Felt

by ScarletteStar1



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Voyeurism, age gap, implied sexual relationship with underage, malnessa, older man/young woman, young Vanessa and younger sir malcolm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24118513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletteStar1/pseuds/ScarletteStar1
Summary: "I was a child... I worshiped you...I would have followed you to the ends of the earth just to have heard your stories, just to have felt the sunshine of your favor. .. I allowed you to take me and fuck me and poison me with your empty promises! You want to blame me, fine, but do not dare to presume I alone am guilty for the destruction of your precious world! You stole my breath back then and every breath I have ever taken since has belonged to you."Three chapters in the story of Sir Malcolm and Vanessa Ives.
Relationships: Vanessa Ives/Sir Malcolm Murray
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	Stories Never Told But Deeply Felt

**I.**

Vanessa is five in white ruffles with bare knees and feet. Her hair has come undone from the fussy curls and ribbons Nanny styled that morning. Wild and wanton, she runs from the play house into the garden.

She sucks her thumb to stop crying. The spot on her arm where Nanny pinched her still stings.

Nearby, her father meets with Sir Malcolm, their new neighbor. They sit at a lovely table with tea and cakes and other things Vanessa would love to have, but she dares not approach. Vanessa finds a spot behind a blooming hedge and listens. The sun makes her drowsy.

“And what have we here?” Sir Malcolm’s sudden appearance startles her. Vanessa wonders if she dozed for a bit. She doesn’t remember hearing her father and their mysterious neighbor stop talking.

“Hello, Sir,” Vanessa mumbles around her thumb. He chuckles, and she wonders why but she likes his eyes’ merriment all the same.

He crouches level to her. “Miss Ives, I do believe you’ve been crying. Have you?” He regards the pitiful creature curled at the roots of a lilac bush. Vanessa nods. “Come now, child,” he says, his voice stern but not unkind. He takes a crisp, white handkerchief from the pocket of his light, fawn coat and extends it to Vanessa. She stands and allows him to wipe her nose. She wonders about her father, but is quickly glad his isn’t there. It feels a wonderful secret to have Sir Malcolm attend her.

She blinks away the last of her tears. Sir Malcolm’s eyes are grey and uncertain, like the sea on a morning that hasn’t decided if it will rain or shine.

“What were you and Papa talking about?”

“Ah, very grown up things. But you’re such a big girl yourself now, aren’t you, Nessa? You’re about my daughter’s age. You shall have to come play with Mina and her brother Peter. Won’t that be nice?” His eyes crinkle as he smiles at Vanessa who nods enthusiastically. “But Miss Ives, A young lady shouldn’t suck on her thumb, should she?” He gently pulls her hand from her face and squeezes her fingers as he places them by her side. “Now, your Papa and I were talking about my next trip. He is going to help finance- do you know what that means, oh never mind that- my journey to Africa. Do you know Africa, Nessa? That’s where all the great, big lions and long, tall giraffes live.”

“I’ve seen such animals in my books!” Vanessa exclaims. She decides she enjoys it more when he calls her Nessa than Miss Ives.

“Of course you have,” he laughs and his eyes glint and glitter more silver than gray now as if the sun decided to shine on the sea after all. Vanessa grins. “Would you like to hear a story?”

“What kind of story?” Vanessa scowls and Sir Malcolm seems amused by her question, by the fact a child would be so impudent as to question the merits of his tale.

“A story about a magical river that flows and flows and no one knows where it begins and no one knows where it ends.”

“Is that where you will go?”

“Indeed it is.”

“I’d like to hear that story, Sir,” Vanessa says.

“Very well, but first you must tell me why you were hiding in the lilacs, crying all alone.”

Vanessa inhales deeply. “Nanny spanked me and pinched me and I ran away,” she says somberly. Sir Malcolm’s face darkens, as if a shadow came over the sea and threatens a storm.

“Why would she do such a thing?” His voice is gruff, and for a moment, Vanessa is frightened he will spank her as well. “Well? Tell me, child.”

“I. . . I didn’t say my prayers correctly before tea,” Vanessa’s voice shakes. In a pale whisper, she continues, “Nanny said I shall burn in hell for being a wicked child.”

“Infernal Papists!” Sir Malcom grits out. “I’ll see to this Nanny of yours, Nessa. Worry not. He takes her chin gently between his thumb and fingers and gives it a little squeeze that warms Vanessa through the marrow of her bones. His scowl contradicts the tenderness of his touch, and she knows with instant certainty it is because he’s angered she’s been harmed. She gasps, understanding he means to protect her. She would like for him to collect her in his arms and carry her into her house, but before she knows what’s happening, he’s left her by the lilac bush in a gust of cigar smoke, cinnamon and brandy.

She wants to follow him for the story he’s not yet told. She wants to follow him for this story she feels deeply owed, and yet she does not.

**II.**

At fifteen, Vanessa favors a slight, cerulean frock. Her body blossoms and the dress accentuates the delicate slopes of her breasts, and the tender curves of her hips.

Summer swelters the three children who are rarely apart. After supper, Mina and Peter choose books for the porch at dusk and servants fan them. Restless, Vanessa slips away, wanders toward the sea.

Sir Malcolm returned from Africa several weeks ago. Life bustles with celebration. He’s swept in lunches, regaled in interviews, and lauded in suppers of which Vanessa can have no part.

And yet. . .

She spends as much time at the Murray mansion as possible and trails him like a jaguar through jungles of people to catch the sandalwood and smoke of his skin on the air. She thinks she might find him and ask for private audience of tales from his darkest travels. When her eyes catch his, she smiles and he returns a merry look, but his eyes darken with warning and he turns his back.

On this sweaty eve, she follows him to the shore, lurking far enough behind for him not to know she’s there.

Secluded in the dunes, she observes him strip clothing from his body. She’s not stupid; she knows she witnesses something sacred and she drops to her knees. Thick framed and ruggedly masculine, Sir Malcolm moves with purpose down the beach in naught but undershorts. Vanessa cannot reconcile the contradiction of strength and vulnerability his exposed flesh proposes.

Flat on her stomach on still-warm sand, Vanessa admires his gleam in the not-quite moonlight.

He wades in and dives beneath the steadily lapping current. Vanessa holds her breath, certain they will both suffocate, but at last he surfaces. It occurs to her, should she ever find him alone, she will tell him he quite steals her breath. _How like a lady in a novel she would sound! Would he touch her face? Would he pull her close and kiss her hard, then sit her on his lap and tell her all the stories for all the years he’s been away?_

Sir Malcolm’s body graces the moonlit waves. Vanessa’s breath finds the rhythm of the ocean, the rhythm of his body slicing through the water. Her hands grip and twist clumps of dune grass like hair. She longs to bite something so she turns her face and bites her forearm. She rolls her hips against the sand beneath her. His back shines in the rapidly diminishing light. In another surface dive, he disappears like a fish.

Vanessa gasps and grinds herself against the sand which has risen in a soft crest between her legs. She huffs a breathy moan in the sand, not caring how grit gathers in her teeth. Her fingers flail and land on a long, flat stone which she brings down to the area causing her such agitation. She rucks up her skirts and rubs the rock against her vulva as she watches Sir Malcolm swim. She’s been taught it is sinful to touch herself down there with her fingers, so she positions the stone in a way she can press on it without her hands. She grins at her cleverness, as her body buzzes and pulsates.

The moon rises, casting the world violet. When Sir Malcolm stands in the sea and stretches his sleek body, water drips from him like he is a monster. Vanessa moves harder against the stone. Sir Malcolm walks onto the beach, collapses on the sand, shoves his hand down the front of his breeches, and brings forth a prodigious member which he strokes in rhythm with the waves, in rhythm with Vanessa.

Chin digging into the dune, she fixes her eyes on him. She wishes she were closer so she could see precisely the expression on his face as he moves on himself. She should be horrified, appalled by the disgrace and darkness of his sin, but none of those feelings resonate in her. She only wants to know the sound of his heart beat and what he would feel like in her hand. The thought of it makes her groan and for a moment she’s frightened he’s heard her. She sucks hard on her wrist as she pushes down on the stone.

It feels a chasm opens around her. Extreme sensation blinds with its velvet prickle, building a primal rhythm, pulling her like she will teeter off the edge of the chasm and plummet from a very great height. Forcing her eyes wide as they can go, she sees Sir Malcolm’s entire body stiffen, hears him grunt softly, and she herself lets go. She falls, long and far, and for what seems a very long time, until she shatters apart in a thousand quivering pieces in the sand.

She does not watch him dress. Shame floods her instantly and entirely. She rolls on her back and watches stars puncture the sky. She throws the rock as far as she can.

She decides to return home rather than to the Murrays’. Even in the dark, the path is familiar, however the chafing between her thighs and the prickling sand in her bodice are most unfamiliar. She is proper enough to feel embarrassed by how pleasant these supposed unpleasant sensations present themselves. Under her breath, she prays a little, trying to ignore the wetness soaking her pantalettes, practically begging for her to touch.

“Aren’t you a sneaky, little devil?” Sir Malcolm’s sudden appearance startles her. He sits on a large rock near the iron gate between their homes.

“Good evening, Sir Malcolm,” Vanessa attempts to make her voice cool, but her cheeks burn.

“Where have you been? Hmmh? The beach, I think,” he approaches her. The collar of his white shirt is open, sloppily buttoned and hastily tucked. His coat is carelessly cast over the rock from where he just rose.

Vanessa swallows hard, “I was out walking.”

“How easily you lie,” he whispers. He takes her hand and raises her arm, inspects the suck and bite marks she made. “What have we here?” He smiles curiously. In the dark, his eyes glint. Vanessa shivers. “No no, Nessa, don’t look away.” His smoky voice encircles her, drags her eyes to join his. “It occurs to me you enjoy looking, do you not?”

“I. . . do not know your meaning,” Vanessa chokes.

“But I think you do,” Sir Malcolm steps closer and she sees flecks of sand on his neck, smells salt on his skin. He rubs his thumb over her arm before letting it go. Vanessa hugs it against her waist.

“How did you know?” She whispers.

“I’ve spent years tracking and being tracked in terra incognito, my dear, do you think I do not know when I’m being followed by a little girl?”

“I’m not a little girl,” Vanessa hates how petulant she sounds.

“Oh,” he chuckles. “Well then, it’s a pity you didn’t come for a swim. The water was divine.” His brows arch when Vanessa gasps. He looks upon her with soft bemusement and still stands quite close to her, perhaps closer than he’s ever been before. “Tell me, why did you follow me? Did you want something?”

“I. . . I don’t know,” Vanessa hates how facile she sounds.

“Don’t you?”

“Of course not,” Vanessa scoffs. Her brow furrows, even as he stares placidly at her. He seems to wait for her to continue, so she mutters, “I just thought. . .” and cannot bear to finish.

“You thought what?” He picks up a lock of her wind tossed hair and twirls it around his finger.

“Well, I thought you could tell me your stories, Sir Malcolm, of Africa,” her words escape her in a gust of breath and leave her gasping.

“Oh?” He chuckles. “Is that what you want? A story? I think I’ve made quite a story for you this night, have I not?”

“Do you tease me?”

“Of course not,” he says with a playful frown and little tut of his lip. “Unless it is teasing you desire, Little Love?”

“Certainly not!” She admonishes, even as her entire body tingles with something she cannot name, something similar but different to what she experienced against the stone. She lowers her eyes at last, and instantly regrets it. She balls her dress in her fists.

“No?”

“No!”

“Then perhaps young ladies should not follow men down paths for which they are ill prepared,” his voice is a serpent of smoke in her ear. She does not want to leave this place. Not ever. Not for anything. But. . . she bites her lips and breathes in the sour tang of his skin.

“Sir Malcolm, your heart is black. I shall pray for you.”

“Yes. You shall. On your knees, I imagine? With your beads in your fingers and a cross above your head?” His voice has turned bitter and his eyes gleam black in the night. “There was a time I attempted to save you from all that sanctimonious bullshit.”

Vanessa winces at his tone. She turns from him and runs home, breathless from tears caught in her chest as she flies forth.

**III.**

Dressed in black crepe for mourning, Vanessa’s years number twenty and five. She has worn mourning for so many years she’s lost count. She’s mourned Mina, her mother, and her own bright flame of youth, snuffed dark by sin, sorrow, and insanity.

Fate twists strange and she follows Sir Malcolm once again. By night, she trails him down dark alleyways and through dank tunnels. Rarely do they rest, and even when their bodies are still their souls know nothing of peace, alone or in the company of one another. Their corrosive kinship exists only for the function of perpetual search.

When she enters his study, the masculine smells of leather, smoke, paper, and ink fill her sinuses. Her heart clenches at the sight of him, hunched over a book. From the tightness around his jaw, it is clear he senses her presence, but he does not greet her. She clears her throat, but he refuses to look at her. “I believe I’ve found someone. A fighter with a steady hand and an idiotic sense of bravery. American as it were.”

At this he looks up. “Fucked him yet, have you?”

Vanessa’s lips twitch in a scowl. “How dare you?” She bites out.

“Oh, I dare, Miss Ives,” he says lightly and looks back to his book, as though he cares not a whit for her or her news.

“Is it so easy for you to turn your back on me?” Vanessa hisses. “Do you hate me so entirely?”

“In truth, Miss Ives, I have very little feeling left for you at all.”

At this, she rushes at him surprisingly quick, grabs his book and hurls it into the blazing hearth with such force it sends up a shock of sparks and ash. Malcolm raises his eyebrows but says nothing as he watches the pages go up in flame.

“Will you not even acknowledge me?”

“Feeling churlish are we tonight, my dear?” He drawls after a long breath.

“You have been my entire life!”

“Don’t lie to yourself. You were a foolish child with a crush and you allowed it to destroy my world.” His eyes narrow as if he is a hunter sighting game.

Caustic and frequent, their arguments play out before fires now where once their love graced balmy shores before midnight seas.

“You quite stole my breath,” she says. After all these years, the words leave her hollow, strange, something not quite herself.

“What? Have you gone completely mad?”

Vanessa paces like a wild creature in a cage. When she stops, her eyes burn blue as the most elusive part of fire as she stares at him, and proclaims, “You are correct, Sir Malcolm, I was a child, but I loved you. No. I worshiped you. Gladly, I would have followed you to the ends of the earth just to have heard your stories, just to have felt the sunshine of your favor. And you are are also correct that love made me foolish, that it convinced me wonderful things could happen if I did as you pleased. So I allowed you to take me and _fuck me_ and poison me with your empty promises! You want to blame me, fine, but do not dare to presume I alone am guilty for the destruction of _your_ precious world! You stole my breath back then and _every breath_ I have ever taken since has belonged to you. You ask how I dare? How do you fucking dare, you miserable old fraud?”

He raises his hand to slap her, but stops short. “Well, what are you waiting for? Do it! Your eyes are so lifeless. This house is a fucking tomb! Hit me then if it will give you a spark of light in your death mask of a face!”

He lowers his hand.

He does not lower his eyes which are now glassy and gray, but most certainly alive. It surprises Vanessa to see he seems to blink back tears. When he speaks, at last, his voice is filled with the rich and somber earthiness of the grave. “If you came here seeking tenderness, it is a sacrament I cannot offer you, Nessa.”

She only wants to reach and touch the edge of his coat, the hem of his sleeve. Tears flood furiously down her cheeks. “Why couldn’t you love me?” She asks.

“I don’t know.”

“If you had to guess?”

“Vanessa, please this is obscene,” he rolls his eyes at the ceiling and his fingers splay as if he is grasping for something but he only finds air.

“Am I so unlovable?” She weeps. “Was my love so evil it turned your heart black and turned me into a monster?”

Sir Malcolm steps into her space in the beat of a heart and puts a hand on her arm. “Don’t ever say that. I wanted you more than I wanted air, but it was wrong and you were too young to understand,” he squeezes her bicep but not to harm her. She arches slightly and inhales the brandy and smoke of his breath. Instantly, she’s a girl again, in the dark, all of her senses swimming around in her head in a fantastic explosion.

“I came to you,” Vanessa whispers and closes her eyes. She wants to lean against him and grip the lapels of his suit in her fists. “And I came again. I came here.”

“I know,” he mutters. With the rough pad of his thumb, he smears the tears on her cheek, then takes his hand away and puts it in his pocket, as if he were capturing her tears and putting them someplace safe.

Vanessa pours herself a brandy and takes a seat before the fire. “So, do you want to hear about this man I’ve found us for the night work?”

“Certainly,” he says. He helps himself to a drink as well and resumes his place at his desk.

They talk into the night and neither walks or runs away.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are my life force, and I welcome all check ins and creative criticism. If you have read this I am eternally grateful for your time and patience. Thank you so much. xoxoxo.


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